


The Ransom Note (NSFW)

by eratothemuse



Category: Knives Out (2019)
Genre: Choking, F/M, NSFW, Name Calling, Rough Sex, Time Skips, Unprotected Sex, brief canon-typical mention of drug use, brief spanking, degradation kink, enemies to i-wouldn't-say-"lovers"-but-we-hate-fuck-on-occasion, getting manhandled by ransom, not safe for work, ransom being an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eratothemuse/pseuds/eratothemuse
Summary: Being Meg Thrombey’s childhood best friend meant that, whenever she would return home to her grandfather’s estate, you would frequently go to visit her. Well, this time, Meg isn’t your motivation for roaming the halls of Harlan’s Manor, but rather, the little note you received from Ransom Drysdale is.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Original Female Character(s), Ransom Drysdale/Reader, Ransom Drysdale/You
Comments: 16
Kudos: 363





	The Ransom Note (NSFW)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Y’all… this took a fucking turn somewhere in there and I… I don’t even know what to say about it. I hope you like it?

**_The Ransom Note (NSFW)_ **

Photo sources: [1](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/189937130977) | [2](https://megmeg-chan.tumblr.com/post/190134516397/forchrisevans-chris-evans-cozy-sweater-in)

* * *

Growing up, you spent more holidays at Harlan Thrombey’s home than your own. Meg grew close to you practically since the moment you met the girl in the fifth grade, bonding over the dysfunctionality of your families and, when her father passed not a year after, you shared that, too. Morbidity seemed to follow the mystery writer’s granddaughter, and his home was something akin to a scene torn right from the pages of one of his novels. It was a youth’s dream, filled with hiding places only a child could find, and you spent most of your childhood escaping with her into the fantastical games you would play in the manor’s vast hallways and hidden corners.

You met Ransom around the time right after her father had passed, due to the Drysdales having been out of the country for several months. He was sent by his parents to find the both of you, annoyed at the task he’d been assigned, but knowing the hiding spots just as well as either you or Meg. After all, they had once been his, just as much as they were now yours.

He was a tall and sullen-looking teenager, with an edge to his tone that he had carried with him into adulthood, but even as a child, it was enough to make you dislike him. Meg blew him off every time, with a roll of her eyes and her own snark in her voice. An indifference to her, because _that’s just how Ransom is_ , she had told you. It was expected, when it came to him, the black sheep of the family. This is how the Thrombeys were.

You, however, were no Thrombey, and any cruel words said by Ransom were met with just as much venom of your own. Smart, biting remarks could be thrown back at him with the same ease and frank carelessness of most young children. You bickered like siblings, and were just as juvenile.

No, you would never be a Thrombey, but you were just about as close as it came.

You remember when you were seventeen, he had returned from ending his lengthy stint in college, of which you heard more than your fair share of gossip from Meg regarding his time there. Of how he mostly wasted it with partying and girls, on his bumpy road to his eventual graduation. It was something you couldn’t understand, his disregard for opportunity, but even Meg couldn’t understand your desperation to get into a college.

Between worrying over your own application— pouring over it with Meg who, despite her lackadaisical attitude regarding her own, had helped you weave almost every word— you received news that, come that summer, Meg and her mother would be leaving for the West Coast. _A much-needed change of scenery,_ Joni had announced to the rest of the family, in that same airy tone she always seemed to carry, while you lingered along the outskirts of the living room.

It had sent you all but pushing past Ransom in your effort to escape through the archway before the tears fell from your eyes. Trying to hold the line of your emotions with the fake smile and congratulations, you dare yourself to keep Meg from seeing the grief the news of her moving had brought you, but he had seen it. He had seen it all, in the few seconds his glance flashed along your face.

Just about your whole body rammed into one of the pillars along the front porch, your hands grasping the firm brick, damp with the dew of the spring rain, desperate to hold yourself up as your shoulders shook with the hurt of losing someone who had always been in your life. The loss that came with change. Best friends for life, you had even applied to the same schools, determined to stay together even through college— Meg Thrombey was perhaps the only solid constant in your life, and you were certainly the closest thing she had ever had to a sister.

You could hear her, yelling distantly inside, as the front door opened behind you, “— _and I don’t have any say in this? You weren’t even going to ask me, Mom?_ ”

Furiously, you wiped at your face with the sleeve of your light cardigan, turning your head as you breathed deeply to try and steady yourself, all in an attempt to keep whoever’s footsteps were approaching from seeing the evidence of your tears.

“Thought you were a tough kid,” Ransom’s voice was dry, unamused, and you felt the familiar annoyance settle in your stomach for the man, “but who knew it was this easy to make you cry?”

“Ransom,” you huffed, hating how your tone betrayed you with how horribly it shakes. Sniffing, you finished, almost begging, “I’m really not in the mood to deal with you, right now.”

“Bite me,” he sighed casually, and you whipped your head around to glare at him through the tears lingering along the edges of your eyes. “It’s not like Meg leaving is the end of the world.”

“Did you just come out here to bother me, or are you really that delusional that you think I want your company?” you shot back with all the burning of your anger, far more easily directed at him than Joni herself.

“All I’m saying is,” he takes a step closer to fix his glare right back at you, just like he always did when you would argue, “Meg’s not the only thing keeping you coming back here.” It was so easy, losing yourself in his argument. Wiping at your eyes and standing that much straighter in an impossible attempt to dwarf his height advantage.

Directing all the fire inside you towards him, you huffed, “Who else? ‘Cause you’ve made it clear, it sure as hell isn’t you wanting me here!”

His jaw clenched, as his eyes narrowed a bit. For a fraction of a second, you wondered if you’d actually hurt his feelings— something you had convinced yourself long ago that Ransom Drysdale just simply didn’t have. Something was broken in that boy, ever since you first met him, and this was perhaps the first time you dared to wonder if he wasn’t all spiteful attitude and destruction.

But just like that, whatever turmoil was swirling in his eyes was no longer free to your consideration, as he turned to the driveway and stormed past you towards his car, his voice stiff, “ _Good riddance, then._ ”

You hadn’t had the time to even think to call after him, as the hint of guilt seeped into your stomach, because Meg came thundering out onto the porch to find you, pulling you towards her own car as Joni shouted for her to come back from the doorway. It was far past nightfall when she drove you back home, all after ranting about how angry she was, and promising that she would come back to visit.

Even with her promise, it still stung deep, hurting with all the emotion of teenage dramatics, and, for the first few months after her move, it really did feel like the end of the world without her being there to share almost every moment of your life with. By the time the next holidays came, however, you were a year older, and far too busy looking forward to Meg’s visit to be bitter for her absence. Though you may not have spent as much time at the Thrombey home as you had before, returning to it was just as easy as breathing.

Up until the moment Ransom walked in, late as usual, and you remembered the last time you had spoken. With the way he glanced to you, before promptly moving to the opposite end of the room, you knew he had, too.

Swallowing your pride, you walked towards him, ready to offer an olive branch, “Hey, Ransom—”

Any apology you would have supplied him was easily smothered when he interrupted, smirk lingering at his lips, “And here I was looking forward to seeing the last of you.”

You hated him. Downright, seething, angry to the core, _hated_ Ransom Drysdale, you decided in that moment, as he riled you up just like it always had come easy to him. Now, though, with that stupid smile on his face and the twinkle of mirth that came from just being a complete asshole to other people, you found that he riled you in another way. Something that hadn’t been there, until this moment, with the gap between who you were back then and who you are right now.

Biting back the urge to snap at him, you instead gave a tight smile and kept your voice steady, “And here I was looking forward to you not being a jerk, but I guess life is filled with its little disappointments.”

He smiled. Actually, grinned at that, and you were left entirely confused by it— by him, and the horrible feeling that stirred within you when he ran a hand through his dark hair.

“But, you have Meg back, so you’re not entirely disappointed this Christmas,” he pointed out, nodding towards where she was laughing at something Harlan was saying, over on the couch. Your brow furrowed when he leant in a little and added, “Me, though, I _hardly_ have what I want.”

You scoffed sarcastically at his dramatics, smacking away the hand he brings to smooth up your sleeve, “Because we all live to know what Ransom Drysdale wants,” but you hated to admit that you _were_ curious, and the closer he was, the more you felt yourself flush with more than just frustration, “go on, tell me, what do you want?”

“Only things I shouldn’t have,” his words were cryptic, which only served to annoy you further, but his smile was predatory, like he enjoyed messing with you. He was so insufferable.

“Well,” you huffed dryly, biting around a smirk of your own as you backed away from his approach to return to Meg’s side, just as much running from him as a gazelle ran from a lion, “why don’t you ask Santa for it? Maybe he’ll take pity for once, and not give you coal again this year.”

Ransom’s grin only widened, where it would have once been wiped from his face at your getting the last word, leaving you puzzled by the interaction and the shift in his attitude. You remember, by the end of the night, how you had stood in the guest bathroom, pointing an irate finger to yourself in the mirror, and gritting a single demand through clenched teeth, whispered to yourself more like a prayer than a reality.

_“You do not like Ransom Drysdale.”_

Well, that had been years ago, now, and you had long since accepted the fact that all the arguments, all the hateful back-and-forth between you, was little more than kindling for the fire he burned into you. Truly, he brought out the worst in you, but fighting with him was more fun than not.

Each holiday, Meg would return home from college, and so would you. Despite the fact that you were still the best of friends, you hadn’t wound up going to the same university, but perhaps that had been for the best. In the years not attached to Meg Thrombey’s hip, you found yourself, grew into your identity, more than ever before. The differences between you made for good conversation each time you saw her, and made it far easier to hide your secret affection for her older cousin behind your tightly-locked lips. For all she knew, your distaste for him remained as genuine as when you were children, and any toleration of his presence was given for her sake alone.

For all he knew, your frustration with him had tempered a bit, in these past four years.

Of course, he was still infuriating. That much was an undisputed truth that he would no-doubt carry for the rest of his life, but he was hardly as vicious as he had once been, at least to you. Maybe his own affinity for you had changed, too. An outsider looking in might assume he was growing up, but you knew much better than to believe that. Everything he did was selfish, immature, and you hated it just as much as you hated yourself for liking him, even a little bit.

Still, there was no denying that, each time you saw him, the irascible way you interacted was fueled by more than just the years-long history you had shared in a similar state, but by the urge to just _interact_ with him in the only way you knew how. After all, fighting was something that came natural to Ransom, and you had learned this game far too long ago to forget its rules now.

Pulling into the gravel driveway always feels like coming home, but there’s unease to the drive this time; a jitteriness that you can’t quite shake seeps into your bones. You knew Harlan’s home back and front, muscle memory sending you down the road and ever closer to the sprawling front porch. There’s a nip in the air, much like there always was at this time of the year, carrying the threat of a cold winter on the heels of this brisk autumn. When you peer out, your breath fogs your windows as it brushes the glass, but you still catch the sight of the lonesome car already parked there.

The ‘72 BMW CS Coupe’s motor is cold, and a sure sign of its owner’s presence within the manor. For the longest time, Meg joked with you that it was the only thing Ransom truly loved, with the way he babied that car.

You take a shaky breath and pull into park alongside the cream classic, shaking a little as you reach over to dig through your purse for the note, penned on rich letterhead and, if that itself wasn’t enough of a signature, a large, bold _R_ marked the bottom of the curt letter. Skeptical eyes reread it for what must be the hundredth time by now, words wrinkled by the tightness of your grip.

“I can’t believe you’re even thinking about doing this,” you sigh softly, leaning back in your seat and looking towards the doorway of the home once more. It wasn’t too late to back out, to never show up for this— whatever it was. It wasn’t too much to believe this a joke, another means of collecting his ammunition against the rest of the world, of which you were a part. How easy it would be for you to be ripped to shreds at the hands of Ransom Drysdale, with the newfound power he held over you. Groaning, you shove the note back into your bag and open the door to your car, grumbling to yourself as you remember the events of the night before, leading up to this moment, “This may be the dumbest thing you’ve ever done.”

Thanksgiving dinner. Who knew that this one would be different from any other shared with the Thrombeys?

Walt arrived with his wife and that little heathen of theirs a day early, far before anyone else, and Meg swore it was just to try and sweet-talk Harlan into selling the movie rights to one of his books. Meg had called in the early morning, letting you know she was thirty minutes out, and had so much to tell you about since you last talked a week before. That was when you set out for the home, eager to catch her once she arrived. Just as you greeted Marta, the home nurse who had been caring for Harlan since his recent deterioration in health, at the door, Joni pulled in, with Meg not far behind. Then came Linda, notably without Richard until right before noon, when he showed up in a separate car, smelling of too much cologne.

You knew far better than to look for Ransom until after dinner had started, but that didn’t stop you from sparing a glance beyond the curtains to the driveway, right as Fran called the family into the dining room. You suspected his lateness was less from carelessness, and more from his humored disrespect. He liked the rise he got out of people, especially his parents, and after years of impunctuality, this was nothing less than what was to be expected of him.

“I cannot wait for graduation,” Meg rolled her eyes, picking at the specially-prepared tofurkey for her and her mother. “Never having to see Smith again can’t come too soon!”

“Are you on another diet?” pointing at her scarcely touched plate with a raise of your brow, you bit into the dressing on your fork, “And don’t tell me that stupid guy has ruined your senior year; you’ve always loved going to Smith!”

Meg nudged you under the table and chuckled, “How do you read me like that? It’s really like you’re psychic, you know.”

“No, I just know _you_ , is all,” a laugh bubbled from your lips, “and don’t avoid the question, girl! Brantley— which, first of all, you really dated a guy named _Brantley_ —”

“I know, I know,” she groaned, as you continued your rant around your yams.

“—was a total douche from the beginning! Didn’t I tell you? Red flags? More like bright red neon signs!”

“Yeah, you were right. He was awful, and maybe seeing him in my classes all the time is making me hate it, okay?” she huffed as you offered her a roll, “And, yes, I’m on a diet! Interrogate me, much? God, you’re worse than a cop!”

You shook the bread basket temptingly, “A diet? On Thanksgiving? Really, Meg? That’s the worst idea you’ve had since Brantley.”

She pouted, but you could see her smile breaking, before finally she reaches forward and grabs one of the vegan rolls, “I guess one roll won’t hurt for a day.”

“You’re gorgeous, babe,” you reminded, before taking a bite of your own roll dramatically, and she let out a genuine laugh for the first time that night. “Brantley, eat your heart out.”

“Okay, okay, enough about me,” she pointed at you with her fork, before stabbing it into her tofurkey, “whatever happened to Andre? Here I am, ready for you to give me all the juicy details, and you haven’t said a single word about him!”

You leant back in your chair with a groan at your short-lived romance, “Don’t spoil my appetite.”

“Spill!” her demand was followed by a sip of her wine.

Glancing towards the others at the table, you found yourself glad that no one appeared to be listening to your conversation, too enthralled in their own, before you leaned in close to your friend and confessed in a whisper, “He _cried_ after we had sex, Meg— and I’m not talking about, like, one, _I’m-so-fucked-out_ tear— but full-on, actual, sobbing. Started talking about how he was in love with his ex still, and how I reminded him of her.”

“Oh, my god,” her face showed her disgust well enough, and you nodded your head in satisfaction that you weren’t the only one who thought that was a bit much. She quirked her lips, pursing them in a frown, “Tell me he at least got you off before going all weepy on you.”

“I wish,” you scoffed, shaking your head, “I got the hell outta’ there real quick after he asked if he could call me by her name, so…”

“Girl,” she sighs, shaking her head, “you gotta’ find someone who will treat you right—”

“Sorry I’m late,” breezes past you with a pop of a camel-colored coat, scarf tugged from around a familiar neck as your eyes drew towards the tall figure. Ransom had clearly no remorse for his tardiness, as he dropped his coat along the back of the vacant chair across the table from you, scarf accompanying it while Linda scolds him from the right of the head of the table, near Harlan.

“It’s Thanksgiving, Ransom!” but her protests fall on deaf ears as he caught your eye upon her call of your name, “She’s not even blood and she can make it every year! Always pleasant, always punctual— is it too much to ask of you, Ransom, to show up on time _once_?”

“Maybe you should go ahead and adopt her, then, Mother,” he remarked dryly, but you could see the amusement from the glint in his eyes at the chaos that erupts at the dinner table. He lived for this.

“Why are you acting like it’s a surprise, Linda? That degenerate is always late,” Walt scoffed, causing Richard to point a warning finger at his brother-in-law.

“Here we go,” Meg muttered at your side, rolling her eyes and enjoying her tofurkey like it was just another day, which, with them, it was.

“Watch your mouth, Walt! That’s still my son you’re talking about!”

“And that’s exactly the problem—!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Ransom grinned at you, plopping down into his seat and listening to the roar of Richard and Walt’s bickering. He gestured to a bowl that was far closer to him than it was to you, “Be a doll and pass the gravy, won’t you?”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Ransom,” you smiled back at him, before sipping your tea and answering his question with a less than savory, “I’d sooner throw it at you.”

“Classy,” he sarcastically commented, grinning wider, and reached for it himself. You could feel his eyes on you, even after you turn back to Meg and try to resume your conversation. Just his presence could make your heart race these days with the tension he brought to the room, walking the edge of a knife with the way he watched you from across the table.

“Where’s dessert at?” Jacob snipped from behind his phone, pushing his half-full plate away like it had offended him in some way.

“I’ll go get it,” Marta began to stand from the seat beside yours, but you stopped her with a gentle hand to her shoulder.

“Let me? You’ve been on your feet all day, hun,” you smiled at her, as she nodded gratefully. Really, you were just itching to get out from under Ransom’s stare, by any means necessary. He was clouding your thoughts, and you would not let him have the satisfaction of knowing the effect he had on you.

“Oh, thank you.”

As you walk past Harlan’s chair at the head of the table, he seemed to have enough of the arguing between the older adults, “That’s enough!”

“But, Dad—”

“You heard me!”

The bickering simmered, though it was still subtly there, hidden behind a passive aggression. You suppressed your satisfaction at the patriarch for silencing his children so easily as you pushed through the swinging door leading into the kitchen. As soon as it swings shut behind you, you let out the breath of air you hadn’t been aware you’d been holding, relieved at the absence of Ransom’s continued scrutiny, however brief it was. With a sigh, you scanned for the sweets, finding the desserts sat out on the island counter; two homemade pies made to Harlan’s liking, like always.

Fishing through one of the drawers for the pie server, you almost jump out of your skin when a voice hummed, “Looking for this?”

“Ransom,” his name sounds like an accusation on your tongue, as you glared at him where he leaned over the island counter, “god, don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Not my fault you’re oblivious,” he shrugged, twisting the pie server in his hand and shutting the drawer he had retrieved it from.

“I’m not oblivious,” you have to walk close enough to try and snatch the utensil from his hand, but that only left you in his clutches as he holds it tight at your tug. “God, you’re such a child. Give it, Ransom.”

He grins down at you, all devilish amusement, but you know you aren’t hallucinating the charm to his voice, or the way his gaze washes over you like a bucket of hot water, “Say, ‘please,’ first.” You do your best to not shiver at the way his voice lowers, and you know then and there that you hadn’t been making up the way he’d been flirting with you.

Swallowing, you try to keep your glare from wavering, “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh,” he sighs, stepping closer and almost boxing you in, between himself and the counter, “but I am.” He takes the hand that isn’t wrapped tight around the server, and finds a grip at your hip, squeezing when your eyes widen and your own makes to push him away. He only holds tighter, huffing, “You’re always so nasty to me, but you want to know what I think?” One more step, and he’s flush against you, and your grip makes your knuckles blanch with how tight they are around the server between you. His breath fans on your cheek as he leans in to murmur by your ear, “I think the fighting turns you on.”

“You’re disgusting,” you try to sound honest. Really, truly, you do, but there’s a shake to your voice, and when he chuckles at your ear, you know he believes it as much as you do.

“Oh, yeah?” he leans back, and you hate how cocky he looks. How satisfied he is with his newfound revelation, “If you really think that, then why haven’t you pushed me away?” He looks like he’s finally figured you out, like he has you right where he wants you, and you hate it— hate how you can smell his cologne, and the scent of the liquor on his breath. Most of all, you hate the buzz of electricity the feeling of his chest against yours sends through you, and you wonder if he can feel the thunder of your heart against your ribcage. You hate how you _like_ it.

Your saliva is thick as you try to force it down the back of your throat in an attempt to force your voice into cooperation, but the excuse sounds just like a lie, “Wouldn’t want to bruise more than your fragile ego.”

“You were always such a little bitch,” he chuckles, and you really _shouldn’t_ like the way he says it when he adds, “but I bet I can make you my little slut, too.”

“ _Fuck_ you, Ransom! You’re such an ass—” you begin, with all the pride and indignation that he brought out of you, but his lips crash against your own before you can get much further into your own rebuttal. You’re reeling, stunned with a squeak as he sears his wretched intent along your tongue, and you give in far easier than you would like to imagine you would have. The cashmere of his green sweater bunches in your fist, coming against his chest in what you had convinced yourself was to push him away, but instead you use the grip to tug him closer.

He tastes like the alcohol he’d sipped at dinner, and it leaves a tingle at your lips. You gasp when his hand slips up your side, palm smoothing just beneath your breast, and you can taste the satisfaction on his tongue. With a growl, your teeth nip at his lip as punishment, causing him to jerk away from you with a gasp of his own, bringing that hand up to his trace his sore lip.

“Did you just fucking bite me?” he was breathless, and you try your best not to moan as he growls, stalking back the step towards you that he had lost from your attack, “Oh, you really are gonna’ get it, sweetheart—”

“What’s taking so long?” is just enough of a warning, muffled from behind the door, to alert you to Meg as she pushes it open. She raises a brow at you, gripping the counter for dear life while Ransom holds the pie server not even a foot from you.

You’re grateful you sound more convincing than you look, as you weakly push at Ransom’s chest, earning a heated glare from the man in question, “This asshole won’t give me the pie server.”

“If you’d only say, ‘please,’” he snaps back, and that’s enough to convince Meg that you effectively were in the midst of another argument.

“God,” she groans, stomping up to Ransom and snatching the server from his hands, “quit being an idiot, Ransom.”

“Takes one to know one—”

Before they can get started, you hastily grab a pie, and nod to Meg as you put some distance between you and Ransom, “Come on, Meg, grab a pie. He’s not worth it.”

“You know what, you’re totally right,” she nods, following your lead and snatching up the other pie plate. As your back flattens against the door to push it open, you catch the way he draws his bottom lip into his mouth, the tick to his jaw giving away how annoyed he was at having been interrupted.

Smothering the wandering thought of what could have happened had you not been interrupted, you force a smile to your bruised lips, and push yourself through the door.

The rest of dinner was excruciating, mostly because Ransom was even _more_ insufferable than before, if that was at all possible. He mocked, teased, and danced around what had happened in the kitchen practically every moment he could. At one point, you even kicked him under the table to get him to shut up, but he just winced and shot you an even more threatening look.

When Meg had asked if you wanted to go with her to some get-together she was having with some other friends from Smith later in the night, you had jumped at the chance. And as you were collecting your coat from the coat closet beneath the stairs, you found yourself cornered once again when Ransom forces his own coat onto the rack in the space yours had once occupied. He doesn’t say a word as you slip your coat over your shoulders, just quirks the corner of his lips at you and brushes his hand past yours as casually as two people bumping into each other in tight quarters would seem.

Ransom shoots you a subtle wink and, just as quickly as he sees the shocked realization on your face, he turns to return to the living room, where the others had retired after dinner.

“You coming?” Meg calls from the foyer.

“Yeah,” you start, fist clenching around the paper in your hand, shoving it into you coat pocket before she had the time to come into your line of sight.

You didn’t have the chance to read it until you sat down on your own bed, late into the night after having returned home from visiting with Meg and her Smith friends. Despite its brevity, the note was enough to keep you up almost half the night. It was cryptic, to anyone other than you, and signed confidently with his initial and nothing else.

> _Tomorrow. 2:00P.M. You know where to find me. I’ll finish what I started._

The words rang in your mind, memorized down to every letter as you dusted your boots off on the front welcome mat as your car beeps, announcing its securing lock behind you. The key hidden atop the door frame is something only a select few outside the Thrombey family knew of, and you have to raise onto the tips of your toes to reach it.

It slides into the lock with a click and you think it sounds like a dinner bell, announcing a sheep to the wolf.

Slipping the key back to its hiding place, the door creaks slightly as you step foot into the manor. It’s quiet inside, moreso than you ever remember it being, and as vacant as it had ever been. It almost seems blasphemous to break the silence; you don’t dare call out in the quiet of its halls.

As it is, you find that you don’t need to search for him in the first place.

His voice calls from your right, in the direction of Harlan’s study almost as soon as you tug the wool scarf from around your neck, “You’re late.”

It gnaws at you how, for all his height and presence, he could sneak around like that. He leans in the doorway to the study, woven ivory of his thick sweater tattered and snagged, yet he still wore it, still made it look _good_. You doubt he noticed its imperfections and, if he did, it wasn’t as if he cared.

Ransom’s hands are in his pockets, as he watches you for the span of the moment that you watch him, until you finally find the composure to collect yourself, “This, coming from the man who’s a serial offender of tardiness; you’re lucky I came at all, Ransom.”

He scoffs, knowing it’s a lie as much as you do, “Oh, give me a break—”

“Where is everyone?” you interrupt, getting the sinking feeling that came with being entirely alone with him, but there’s an electricity accompanying the thought of it, this time. Anxiety laced with an anticipation that rushes down your spine, warming you up with all the arousal the memory of the night before could bring. For the first time in your life, you _want_ to be left alone with him.

“Where else?” Ransom’s smile is all cheshire before he pushes from the archway to move along the antique wood floor, burning the safety of the distance separating you as he gains his ground, “They’re at the club.” You nod slowly, glancing around the size of him and off down the hallway. While the Thrombeys may be at the country club, their servants were undoubtedly not. He catches that, too, as he leans into your line of sight to add, “And Fran’s getting high off her ass on the back porch, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He’s close, too close, and you take a reflexive step back, heel hitting the edge of the first stair leading up to the second floor. Ransom advances the distance placed between you with ease, but something dark lingers in his eyesight when he teases you, “Don’t act like you’re scared now. You knew exactly what you were getting into before coming here, honey.”

“I’ve never been scared of you, Ransom,” your jaw clenches defiantly, and you display it in all the hopes that he would throw another scathing word at you. It’s the truth, you weren’t scared of him. The hum in your bones isn’t from fear, but something much more frightening. It was so much easier, fighting with him, than accepting the truth of the lust churning in the pit of your stomach.

And you see your desire mirrored in the way he licks his lips, murmuring his condescension down to you with a cocky flair, “Never were too smart, were you?”

“Are you gonna’ stand there all day,” you tempt, using his own words against him, “or are you ever gonna’ finish what you started, for once?”

“That mouth of yours,” Ransom clips at your chin with a sharp tap of the knuckle of his index, before his long fingers wrap around your neck and jerk you with a surprising roughness flush against him. He growls right into your ear, and if you didn’t hear the huskiness to his voice, you would have thought him angry, “it’s finally got you in a heap of trouble, young lady.”

When he descends upon you, you think you can barely breathe. Through the grip he has at your throat, and the bruising demand of his lips at your own, you struggle to think, let alone force oxygen through your nose and into your desperate lungs. Your nails were certain to fray his sweater even further, but you can’t bring yourself to care as they dig into the thick fabric covering his arms, grip harsh and unrelenting until he lets you up for air and practically throws you away to stumble up the first step of the staircase. It squeals under your weight.

Ransom stalks after you, a promise as good as a threat on his tongue, “Get your ass upstairs. No one’s going to interrupt us, this time.”

There’s a biting urge to disobey, to tell him that he can’t boss you around like this, but the arousal pumping through your veins tempers the emotion, and you turn on your heel, all but running from him up the creaky steps. You’re halfway to the room he used when he stayed here, when you’re caught by the arm by a hefty grip to be roughly turned and slammed between the paneled wall and the length of the man on your pursuit.

Ransom is all broad shoulders and solid chest against you, blazing his hands up the span of your skirt, only to grip and tug it up your waist like he doesn’t care for the openness of the hallway. Situating a muscular thigh between your knees, an agonizing fever radiates from your skin when he dips and captures your lips with his own once more. Your fingers dig into his dark hair, scraping down his scalp to his back as he pulls you up and against him, earning a groan into the crevices of your mouth. He feels like everything you shouldn’t be doing right now, and wanting him like this is the definition of a wrong decision.

But, damn it all, you don’t care.

His hand is caught on the curve of your ass, gripping you through the white lace of your panties to encourage the curling grind of your hips to his, and the drag of your clothed cunt against the press of his admittedly impressive length. The startled whimper that escapes has him smiling, and you find enough control to bite back the next when his hips pin yours to the wall for him to grind back harshly against you.

Ransom breaks the kiss, only to chuckle against your throat when you rub down against his thigh involuntarily, “I knew,” perfect teeth nip at your skin, “that all these years,” trailing down your jaw, “you liked me more than you let on.”

“Shut up,” he wasn’t going to get you to say it, not that easily.

“You can keep pretending all you want,” his hand slips down the front of your underwear, feeling the proof of your arousal with the kiss of his fingertips, and for an instant you debate if this was all worth putting up with the cocky smirk he carried, “but _something_ tells me you’re lying.” He jolts you, with the drag of his fingers through your wet folds, pressing lewdly at your clit, and your loss for words is all it takes to stroke his arrogance, “Don’t worry.” Through your lidded eyes and shallow breaths, you can see the spark in his icy eyes as he flays you one layer further, “Unlike your last lousy fuck, I know how to get a woman off.” He laughs, breathy and induced by the way your eyes widen at his words, before he adds, “Me? I’ll get you begging for it.”

Your whole body stiffens, as he slips a thick finger within you and curls it, dragging it along your insides deliciously, and you just about lose all your words through a moan, “H-How do you know about—”

“Baby,” he says it low, and with just as much pity, when he breathes, “Meg’s a gossip, and these walls are thinner than you think.” You would have to remember to kill her later, but all shock of her small betrayal is overshadowed by the shock of him slipping his fingers from your panties as he goes to his knees before you.

“Ransom!” you hiss, gasping as he tugs your hips towards his face by his fingers hooked in your underwear. You can’t stop him when he sets your thigh on his shoulder; it’s all so fast, and he’s pushing your panties to the side and drawing his thumb lazily down your bare clit, like he had all the time in the world, while you protest, “W-We can’t— in the _hall_ —”

“The stairs creak; _relax_.”

Any room there was for argument is quickly lost on your tongue as he delves his between your thighs. You gasp, rocking forward and catching yourself by a harsh grip on the shoulder your leg wasn’t propped on, your other hand clutching into his hair.

He looked so damn delighted by how scandalized you seemed to be, and he pushes two fingers into you where there had once only been one. The way he eats you out is as rough and tumble as anything you’d done so far, and you know he’ll force your orgasm from you with the same brute force he had used to press you to this wall.

“Ran— Ransom,” you whisper, trying your hardest to keep from absolutely losing it at the feeling of his fingers pulling from you, only to drag hard into home all over again, as his tongue flattened against your clit and _pressed_. He was good at this, and he sure looked like a man who knew it. In a staggering moment of clarity, you shoot down at him, your head falling back against the wall, “This, doesn’t mean I like you.”

“Oh, no, honey,” he leans back, raising a brow at you before actually slapping your clit and shocking the hell out of you at the feeling of it, before huffing back at you, “you _fucking_ like me.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” there’s a _you_ that is supposed to come after it, but it dies with the moan that rips from you when he lays his tongue over your clit and sucks for a second, as he picks up the pace with his fingers and you just about fall with the shake he rips from you, “Ransom.”

“You can cum, _if_ ,” he taunts, stipulation and your arousal on his tongue, never giving anything without an expectation of something in return, “you admit it.”

You gnaw at the inside of your cheek. In any other circumstance, you wouldn’t have been swayed even a little bit, but this time, with how close you are and the feeling of his thick fingers between your thighs, it sounds good coming from his lips.

“No,” it’s exhilarating, when you see the clench of his jaw. Pushing his buttons was something you’ve learned how to do over a lifetime, and you weren’t about to start giving him what he wanted, just because he had the upper hand.

“So that’s how you’re going to be?” Ransom chuckles, slipping his fingers from within you and you sigh in frustration at the lack of contact. Your body thrums, as he pushes your thigh from his shoulder and stands, only to pin you back into the wall with his lips nipping at your ear, “I’ll get it out of you, one way or another.”

“How do you plan on that?” taking a steadying breath, you look at him with less hostility than curiosity, and he takes you by the forearm, all but dragging you down the few remaining steps to push open his bedroom door and tug you inside. You’re staggering towards his bed, with the force of it, and by the time you turn to take a good look at him, he’s pulling his sweater over his head.

“Simple,” Ransom finds his place against you just as easily as he had abandoned it, hands slipping to rid you of your panties and walk you back against his bed, breath ghosting against your lips, “I’m not going to let you cum, until you tell the truth like a good girl.” He pushes you back, and you fall to the bed as he hikes your hips up towards his, dipping along the mattress as he crawls over you, words washing over you like fire as he teases, “After all, only good girls get to cum, sweetheart.”

“I’m not going to play your game, Ransom,” you try your best to sound serious, but the breathiness to your tone gives away how into it you were, and the way his smirk widens tells you he knows it.

He bends, hands slipping under the cashmere of your sweater, slower and gentler than in the hallway, but with just as much of a threat as his lips kiss at your throat, “You will.” The sweater, he makes quick work of, tossing it off the bed with as much reverence as he gave his own clothing, fingers slipping down the strap of your white bralette as he drinks in the sight of you, tone dark when he hums, “Or maybe you’d rather play the little slut, instead of the good girl?” Bending and planting a kiss along the arch of your breast, he only pulls back when satisfied he could leave a mark, “Wear this special for me?”

“Newsflash,” you swallow, thick as you arch into his warm hands, squeezing you through the fabric, but the softness of your curves is contrasted by the prickliness of your tone, “I always look this nice, jerk, or are you going blind with your old age?”

“Bitch, I’m thirty-eight,” he bites, and you reach to drag him harshly back down to your lips, the weight of him almost crushing as his teeth and tongue meet your own, but the feeling is just suffocating enough to be pleasurable. The worst part? He was awful, but the back-and-forth, the name-calling— it was just as much fun now as it ever was.

Especially with they way his hands pin yours above your head on the mattress, pinning you down through your pitiful struggle to keep a shred of the control that you were quickly losing over the situation. Between the punctual grind of his hard length along your soaked underwear, and his mouth roughly claiming your own, you know whatever fight you have is only a moment from wavering, because, maybe this is what you’ve always wanted in the darkest crevices of your soul.

But your pride wasn’t quite ready to break yet.

When the teeth come out, Ransom pulls back, only to keep your hands pinned with one of his larger ones, combined with the full weight of him, huffing darkly, “Bite me again, slut, and you’ll regret it.”

Slipping your thighs up his own, you snip back, electrified, breathless, “Why don’t you make me?”

He nearly rips your lace with the force that he tugs your panties down, just enough to force a hand between your thighs once more and press his deceptively talented fingers against the velvet skin hidden between your folds. You hate how speechless it makes you, so easily dissolving into whimpers and moans, subject to his cruel intentions despite your harsh words and defiant preludes. You hate the wicked truth of how much you like it.

He has you on edge, brought on too quickly with the hint of your last ascension to the peak of your pleasure and subsequent denial of it, and you’re tugging against him in vain as he draws moan after moan from you on his fingers. Letting you arch and grind against them, ride them to your satisfaction, but rips them from you just as you get there.

“Ransom— no! Don’t you d-are stop!” you yelp, frustrated, angry, and he only grins down at you.

“This isn’t the worst of it, not after all the shit you’ve pulled,” Ransom’s voice is smooth, but the way he turns you over is all violence. Discards you onto your stomach, only to tug you by your hips into a kneeling position as he bites over your shoulder, “I’m sick and tired of your attitude, so if you want to keep acting like a little bitch, I’m gonna’ treat you like one, sweetheart.”

You make to turn back over, but he presses you down, face into the mattress, with his hand between your shoulder blades. The admission of how hot you found his overpowering you is laid bare by the moan falling from your tongue, and your only respite is found in the fact that it’s somewhat muffled by his comforter.

Still, it’s not enough, because just as soon as you hear the sound of a zipper, he tugs you back by a grip on the nape of your neck, back pressed into his bare chest, as he pushes his dick through your folds, sounding far too pleased with himself as he taunts you, “You like this, don’t you? You like it rough, huh, baby?”

“N-No,” you deny, but when the hand he doesn’t have wrapped around your throat lands, hard, against the curve of your ass, your resulting squeak of a whimper gives you away. The sting lingers, burns at your skin, but the shock of it only serves to make you wetter, and you know he can feel it, with the way the head of his dick hits against your clit.

“Don’t lie, not to me— not when I can see how much of a little slut you are,” he rocks his hips forward, grazing against you with just enough pressure to leave you craving more, sending you rocking back against him in an effort to get _more_ — proving him right in every way you don’t dare say. Ransom says more than enough for the both of you, as your head lulls back to his shoulder, and he catches you in the corner of your eye, disheveled and just as wrecked as you felt, “Bet you can’t bite on your fucking knees.”

“R-Ran—” you get out, finally at the brink of begging, right as he pushes you back down into the mattress, tugging your hips up to meet his own.

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, then shut,” he punctuates with another slap to your ass, harsh, before you feel the dip of his head splitting you open, “the _fuck_ up, sweetheart.” His grip on your hip and the nape of your neck tightens, as he rocks his hips into home, no edging or slowing his way in, just hits you hard and _deep. S_ topping as his shudder rocks through him and into you, shaking you to your core at the indescribably full feeling of him. A yelp leaves you, gasping at the pain before the pleasure of his initial languid drawback, hearing his own shaky breath through the near-deafening sound of your own heartbeat thundering in your ears, “God— you’re tight.”

_You’re just fucking big_ , is all you can think, but you can’t bring yourself to speak with how harshly you’re biting your own lip to ground yourself as your fingers twist into the sheets. Shifting your hips, you arch into him when he hits you deep once more, whimper passing your teeth as pleasure rips from your soul. Every inch of him, every ridge, you could feel filling you up in the most excruciatingly satisfying way, from the curve of his dick to the grind of his pelvis against the swell of your ass.

You were losing your damn mind, with this slow pace he was setting.

But then his hand slips down your back, grabbing a handful of the flesh of your hip, right before he hitches his own to snap them against yours at an angle that nearly has you going blind with the stars behind your eyes. You can’t help your moan, or the drool that escapes the side of your lip when he leans over you and sets an almost brutal pace. It was so good, and damn he knew it.

Each moan, breath, and word is heard at your ear, as his teeth scrape along your shoulder, soothed by his tongue, and you have half a mind to tell _him_ to shut up, if only you could form a coherent word, “Bet you like me, now, huh?” Ransom reaches, pulling you up on wobbly legs to slip his hand between your thighs, finding your clit and pressing sloppy circles to it, “You’re my little slut, aren’t you? C’mon, say it.”

Your mouth is dry, but he sounds just as desperate for it as you are, and you’re so close to your own release that it hardly seems worth it to deny him anymore. You clench around him, and his pace falters at the way your breath picks up.

“Ransom,” you choke out one last-ditch effort to change his mind, “ _please_!”

“Uh-uh,” he huffs, starting to slow, and you just about want to kill him, “I said you don’t cum until you tell the truth, and I’m going to get what I want outta’ you, before you get what you want outta’ me.”

“You’re,” you shudder, frustrated groan sounding more like a sobbed tantrum than anything else, “the _worst_.”

He pulls out, and you know you want to kill him.

“Ransom—!” your complaint doesn’t last long, because he’s turning you back over, pushing you hard into the sheets and hand at your throat when, without warning, he’s pushing back into you.

You can’t breathe, nails digging into his forearm as he thrusts into you hard, demanding, and you see the grit of his teeth and the rage in his eyes when he bites, breathing labored around each demanding thrust, “You little, fucking, bitch, I’m so tired, of your, shit.” He loosens his grip, and you gasp for air, just enough for him to tighten it again, leaning close to your face and hitting you so deep that you know you’re going to cum whether he likes it or not at this point. It’s a growl on his tongue, a bite at your lips, and you can barely think enough to process his words, let alone refute them, and you’re not quite sure you want to, because despite how wrong it sounds, it feels _right_ , “This pussy is _mine_ , you hear me? You’re my pretty little slut. Fucking. _Mine_.”

He lets go of your throat, just as you snap, and your lungs wrench needles of oxygen into your body as your inner walls spasm around him in the chasm of your euphoria. Your hands clutch to him as he crashes his lips to yours, drinking your moans and fucking you through the worst of it, as his own resulting whimpers vibrate against your tongue.

You’re messy and desperate, hardly coherent when you come down, and he keeps his ruthless pace. Open-mouthed and filthy, the kiss makes you feel just as dirty as his lovemaking, but you cling to him for more. You couldn’t unravel him from you if you wanted, and this time you don’t dare bite him, not even for the fun of it.

You whimper, overstimulated, when his hand finds your clit and pushes you towards your next, desperate orgasm, gasping against your lips— almost, _broken_ , with the way his pace has become flimsy and messy, “ _Tell me._ ”

The haze, accompanying the needy wanting that came with his arms around you and his breath on your tongue, fills your head until you can’t think straight, and your admission comes tumbling on whispered words, but it’s still there, confessed from a sinner in church, and his name, reverent as a prayer, “ _I-I like you, Ransom— I’m yours.”_

He shivers, planting himself deep with the next sloppy thrusts as his brows draw together and his blue eyes flutter shut, hold tightening around your hips and drawing you to him with the reaching of his own end.

You feel just as dirty when he finishes as when you had started, but you’re spent and satisfied, and Ransom sits inside you until, with the drag of his lips down your chest and the drag of his dick from within you, he pulls out.

Whatever brief honesty, if it had ever been honest to begin with, is gone with a swipe of his lips to your navel, and the smirk he replaces there as his eyes dart up to catch your own over the heaving of your chest, “I told you, I’d get it from you.”

You smack his shoulder with your thigh, but he just crawls back over you when you complain, “It’s cold in here.”

“Then, put your clothes back on.”

“Asshole,” you huff, but it doesn’t hold the same edge, and he’s laughing as you push him off of you to swing your legs off the edge of the bed.

“Don’t be like that, sweetheart, you liked it.”

But as you bend, you don’t reach for your cashmere, but instead find his tattered cream wool. His cocky expression falters as you slip the sweater over your head, settling into the warmth. Even battered and broken, the thing was comfy.

Crawling back into the bed, you hitch your thigh over his, settling into his lap as your hands tug the sweater out to get a good look down at it, “When are they supposed to be getting back home, anyway?”

Ransom sits up, pulling you by his hand at your jaw to brush his lips against yours, “Who cares?”


End file.
